


Marston at Midnight

by Eonneo



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 15:18:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16684081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eonneo/pseuds/Eonneo
Summary: After a little trouble in town, you decide to disappear for a while and contemplate your next decision. John Marston decides to help you out in that decision.





	Marston at Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. Some feel good with Marston. He's not as cruel in this as he is in the first game. And obviously no wife.

You sat on rotten wooden flooring, the fire casting your shadow across the dilapidated walls. The building was falling in on itself, the moon casting pale rays down through the cracks on the ceiling. The night was chilled, haunting winds seeping through the dry, desert landscape. You shivered, even at the fire's light. This is what you deserved; a frigid, lonely existence, melting into the old farmhouse to become part of its crumbling structure.  
You cocked your gun, placing the barrel to your forehead. It was cold and heavy against your hand. This was it. You, the wind, the moon and the house. The coyotes began laughing in a cacophony in the far distance, luring in a prey unknown. Soon, you'd be just like that prey, and you longed for it.  
“There you are.”  
You gasped at the voice, jumping back and dropping the gun just inches from the flame. Your eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness at the edge of the farmhouse, a silhouetted figure standing in the drooping doorway.  
“Marston?” you whispered.  
“Who else?” he said, stepping towards you. His steps, even on the uneven flooring, were nearly quiet, and you felt embarrassed for having not heard him nearing the house. You had been too concentrated on your own misery, you figured. He was dressed casually, black work slacks neatly paired with a dark button up shirt and leather vest. His brown boots looked heavy, and you had to wonder how he stayed so silent.  
“What do you want?” you hissed, still standing defensively. This had been your time. This was your place. Even if it were miserable, it belonged to you. He had no right to be there.  
“Well, after I heard what had happened, and that you had up and disappeared, I figured I should come find you,” he explained.  
“And just how did you find me?”  
He slowly stepped towards the fire, circling it, gazing into it with thought.  
“Where else would you be?” he asked. “You think I don't know you. You think nobody knows you. You're the big, hard bandit with a cold heart and a quick hand.” He gave a tilt of his head. “Right?”  
“Did you just come here to insult me?” you questioned,definitely feeling insulted.  
“No, I came to make sure you were okay,” he replied.  
“I'm just fine. You can go.”  
He stopped at where you had dropped your gun, picking it up in one quick swoop.  
“Didn't look like you were fine.” He opened the chamber of the revolver, dumping the bullets onto the ground.  
“Well, you shouldn't have been looking.”  
He shook his head, setting the gun down on a splintering window sill.  
“Come back with me. This ain't the way to solve things.”  
You let out a combative sigh, looking down at the ground.  
“What's it matter, Marston? Really? I can't do jack shit right.”  
“You really think one bad day means you can't do nothin' right?” he asked.  
“It's been a lot of bad days,” you answered abruptly.  
“And there'll be a lot more bad days. I've had 'em. Gonna' have more. You don't see me puttin' a gun to my head.”  
“Well, you're stronger than me.”  
“Ain't about that, miss.”  
“Miss,” you mocked.  
“Yes, miss. Now are you comin' back or not?”  
“Damnit, John,” you said, raising your tone.  
“What?”  
You both stood there, the fire dancing between you. His gaze was now harsh, but not combatant. Part of you, the miserable part, wanted to deny that he cared. You were nothing but a mess up. Why bother going back to town when you'd just do something worse next time?  
“Quit actin' a fool and come back.” He spoke softly now. Another gust of wind danced through the farmhouse, turning the fire's heat towards you, the warmth bringing you to your senses. His long hair swayed with the wind, brushing over his shoulders. In the light, his scars were prominent, giving him a look beyond his years. It suited him.  
“Damnit, John,” you repeated, but quieter, this time.  
“I've got a horse. Come on.” He turned back to leave the farmhouse, turning into a shadow through the doorway. You gave a sigh and kicked dirt into the fire, letting the darkness of the starry night surround you. Before heading out, you picked up your empty revolver, finding comfort in it.  
Outside was a large palomino shire, swatting its tail idly as it rested nearby. He had hitched it far enough from the farmhouse so that you wouldn't hear its loud breathing and hooves. John Marston was a smart man, whatever else he was.  
He offered to help you up on the horse, but you shooed his hand away, hopping up yourself. You struggled a bit, your arm strength not at full after your scuffle back in town, but you did your best not to show it. There was a lingering feeling that he probably knew, though.  
Using the stirrups, John saddled up, and with a kick of his heel, the large horse was off, dust kicking up in a flurry behind the two of you. With your hands loosely on his hips, you watched the abandoned farmhouse disappear, the dark sky taking over the desert.  
As the horse galloped on, you let your feelings wash over you. The sadness, the failure, the crushing weight of misery. Pathetic was the first word that came to mind. Out in the desert, like a lost child, having to be 'saved' by John. What was I thinking? Oh, wait. I wasn't.  
With little realization, you fell closer to John, your arms sliding to be around is waist and your head resting lightly against his back. He didn't seem to notice, and if he did, he didn't care. Even in your self pity, you had to acknowledge that it felt good to have him come for you. He wanted you back. He had worried for you. He came for you. What did that mean?  
You didn't care. All you cared about was that moment.  
Town was quiet when you two returned. The horse turned to a slow trot through the muddy way, leading you to your own farmhouse, to home. The closer you came, the better you felt, the thought of your warm home comforting.  
There it was in the distance, and soon, you were upon it. Something in you wanted to stay with John, and ride far away from it all. Letting go of him felt painful, but you did it quickly, sliding off the horse with a thud. Nothing further to say, you began walking into the house.  
“Miss-” he began. Looking back, he seemed puzzle upon his horse, the beast tapping its foot nervously. “I think it'd be best if I stayed with you for the night.”  
“Excuse me?” you laughed. What?  
“That gun on your hip may be empty, but I know you got more bullets in there.” He wasn't lying back in the abandoned farmhouse. He did know you. But, of course, who owned a gun without owning bullets?  
“Really?”  
“Why would I lie?”  
“Fine. Make yourself at home, Mr. Marston,” you begrudgingly agreed. Of course, something in you felt almost giddy he wanted to stay with you. He was worried. But you weren't going to show it. You wouldn't let him have that from you.  
He hitched the horse and followed in behind you, shutting the door. The house was dark and cold. Without word, John started building a fire in the fireplace, and you lit some oil lamps. When the house was no longer dark, you went to a wooden chair at the kitchen table and sat down, resting your head in your palms. The weight of everything finally came down, and you needed time to take it in. John sat next to you, both of you sitting in silence.  
“It ain't that bad. You've heard some of my stories. If I were paid in mistakes, I'd have retired long ago.”  
“It's easy for you, John. You're a man. But I'm a woman. People look at me and love waiting to see how I mess up.”  
“You can still prove them wrong. You'll have another chance, and you'll do it right.”  
“But what if I don't?”  
“You try it again until you do.”  
You gave a laugh, more from nervousness than humor.  
“Am I funny to you?”  
“You're a lot of things to me.”  
“Oh yeah? Like what?” he teased.  
“Annoying comes to mind.”  
“Not as much as you, I can promise.”  
You both gave a small laugh. As your eyes kept to the floor, you felt a hand on your shoulder. John gave a reassuring squeeze and pat.  
“It'll be fine.”  
There was silence. You weren't particularly tired yet, and wanted to enjoy is company for a bit longer. He had somehow managed to bring you out of your pity stupor, and you felt better.  
“Want something to drink?”  
“I thought you'd never ask! Of course I do!”  
“Alright, settle down.” You went to the cabinet nearby, fetching a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and a glass, returning to the table. He stood up beside you as you poured his drink, and no more had you poured it had he taken it from your hand and downed it.  
“Damn, that's smooth,” he complimented.  
There was a hand around your hip. It was so quick, you hardly noticed, pulling you in towards him.  
“Care if I have another?”  
“Uh, no,” you stuttered, seeing a smirk across his face at your words. The scars he had curled up with his smile, only adding to his ruggedness.  
You poured the drink quickly, and just as quickly he drank it.  
“Miss, you have to stop being so hard on yourself. Stop playing the hero. I don't wanna' have to see your grave anytime soon.”  
“Quit worrying about me,” you shushed, turning your head away.  
“Someone has to,” he said, his other arm finding its way across your side.  
Part of you wanted to resist, but a stronger part of you fell into it, your head coming to lay upon his chest. He smelled of tobacco and the bourbon with the slightest hint of leather from his vest. It was nice, and comforting.  
His hands slipped under your shirt to your back. They were warm and rough on your cold skin. You closed your eyes, taking in the moment, releasing tension in your shoulders.  
“Don't pull a stunt like that again. With the gun. Just...don't,” he seemed to beg.  
“I...don't think I would've done it,” you tried to assure.  
“I hope not. I was worried when I couldn't find you in town.”  
“I'm sorry,” you admitted.  
He held tighter, saying nothing.  
“I'm just an idiot,” you sighed into his chest.  
“And?” he said lightly.  
“You,” you groaned, taking your head back and looking up at him with distaste.  
He had that same smirk on his face, playful and inviting. You hated it, how even under his scars, he could look so sweet and rope you in. John Marston was nothing but trouble, and you knew that better than anyone. He decided to test the amount of trouble he could cause, because in the moment of you two locking gazes, he let himself lean in, lips meeting yours.  
It wasn't forced, but it did surprise you, your legs almost buckling backwards. The strong arms around you kept you steady, bringing you in closer to the passionate moment. You melted into it, the warmth of his lips and body against yours, the strong scents of outdoor, and the moment itself.  
When he stopped, taking his face just out of reach of yours, you realized how much you wanted it to continue. How much your body felt like it needed him.  
“John, I-” you began, but he cut you short with another kiss. It was harder, more passionate, stronger. The two of you turned slightly, your back against the table with John pressing against you. The sharp taste of bourbon filled your senses with his tongue, sweet and strong. You almost felt you could get drunk off of it.  
His hands swept down from your back to your thighs, lifting you to sit upon the table, letting his body fit between your legs. He was a perfect fit, work slacks grinding you. There was a feeling of torment with it, your body practically begging to be closer to his.  
An arm went around your shoulders, tangling in your hair, with another mess of a kiss following. Your hands found their way under his shirt at his sides, nails digging ever so slightly into his skin.  
“Damn,” he whispered into your mouth, stepping back. You found yourself reaching out almost to bring him back in, hair a mess around your face and neck. You weren't waiting for long, John practically ripping his shirt off his back and tossing it onto the table next to you.  
Wanting to join in, you hopped down from the tablet. Unlike most other women, you were dressed in similar fashion to a male, with shirt and pants instead of a dress. You tossed off your boots and stepped over to the bed, taking off your own shirt and letting it fall to the floor. John came up behind you, placing his arms around you, his warm chest covering your back.  
There was a twinge of embarrassment in your mind, a red hue befalling your cheeks. A mixture of respect for John and a lack of confidence on your part made you feel bare.  
“Is this what you want?” you asked softly. One of his hands went to your face, turning your head up towards him slightly. He gave a kiss on your temple.  
“Absolutely,” he replied, his breath hot across your neck. You shivered.  
He didn't give you much of a chance to feel worse, his hands sliding between your hips and the pants, easing them to the ground. All that was left were your underclothes and John's slacks. He made quick work of his slacks, revealing himself in his entirety. He was scarred, skin rough, and hard.  
Without waiting on your next move, he took hold of your back and thighs and in one solid swoop, had your back on the bed, crawling over you. Sliding off your underwear, he placed his hips between yours, teasing you as he went to take off your bra. Embarrassment again became apparent on your face.  
“Damn, you are gorgeous,” he said, kissing your collar bone. His lips went next to your neck, dotting kisses along it, an occasional tease of his tongue across your jawline. Your legs tightened around his, trying to pull his hips closer, your loin heating against his.  
“You're just too much,” you half said half laughed. He gave a quick 'hmph' in reply.  
“Am I?” he asked, tugging at your hair, revealing your neck in full. To your surprise, he gave a quick, sharp bite, making you gasp. From your neck, he went to your mouth, engaging in mess of lips, saliva and tongue. This put him at the edge, a quick movement of his hips and he was inside you. Both of you gave a quiet moan into each others mouths, slowly thrusting, giving you a moment to adjust.  
“Goddamn,” he hissed, his arms at either side of your head, hands in fists on the white bedsheet.  
Your arms went to his biceps, digging into them harder with each movement he made into you. Moaning momentarily, your head fell back, and he again bit your neck, a mixture of pain and pleasure ebbing from the mark.  
“That's good,” you said breathlessly.  
John stopped for but a moment, pulling back onto his knees. Before you could ask what he was doing, he had his arms under your legs, draping the over his shoulder before dropping back down over you. That amount of stretching hurt at first, but you quickly grew accustomed it, the closeness making his thrusts feel all the better.  
He knew what he was doing, and he was good at it beyond reason. This moment was pure bliss, sweat dropping from his chest onto you, your nails leaving sharp crescent marks on his skin. You two were together in that moment, with each hard thrust of his hips, the bed creaking against the dark wooden floors.  
You felt a sharp bite on your bottom lip, almost enough to draw blood, before John's tongue was in your mouth. It was enough to bring you near your tipping point, arm around his back and bringing him in close.  
“Don't stop,” you begged, and he obliged, speeding up as best he could and letting his tongue fall back over your neck. Within a few more moments, you were there, letting a loud moan befall yourself over his skin. At that moment, he gave one hard kiss.  
“I'm going to,” he mustered between your mouth and his thrusts. His movements became sloppy, and a gruff moan filled the space between you two. He eventually stopped, but didn't remove himself from you. Your legs fell back by his, and he lay on top of you, panting. Your arms stayed draped over his back, taking in the heat that had arisen from the friction.  
“Hell, I needed that,” you joked.  
“Yeah, me, too,” he agreed. With a quick kiss to your forehead, he rolled off of you onto his back. You two lay in silence as you caught your breath.  
“I can't believe we did that,” you began.  
“And why's that?” John asked.  
“Actually, I can't believe I just did you,” you laughed, turning onto your side so you could place an arm over him.  
“It was more like I did you, but okay.” His arm went over yours and onto your side.  
The fire crackled in the corner for a while before it began to dim, the cabin slowly fading to a faint darkness. You felt more at peace in this moment than you had in a long time. John was truly nothing but trouble, but you didn't mind. Trouble was practically your calling.  
“John?” you whispered.  
“Yeah?” He sounded groggy, and you knew you both were tiring away.  
“Thank you,” you said, your head falling into the crook of his arm. He gave a small, tiny laugh, and pulled you closer.  
“Of course,” was all he said before the two of you faded away into sleep, the night still young.


End file.
